


Live To Tell The Tale

by MooseFeels



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fairy Tale AU: Once Upon a Time, in a land far, far away, there was a King and a Queen, and they loved each other very, very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live To Tell The Tale

Once Upon a Time, in a land far, far away, there was a King and a Queen, and they loved each other very, very much.

The King was named John, and he was smart and kind, and very good with his hands- good enough that he was an acclaimed maker of clocks all throughout the land.

The Queen was named Mary and she was kind and beautiful and strong. He parents had been great warriors both, and Mary had been raised to the battlefield as a child. Mary left the eternal war in the West to marry John, and she did not miss it, not one bit.

She did miss something, however. A great emptiness grew in her, day by day, emptiness that seemed to consumer her until one day a joyous announcement was made throughout the kingdom.

Queen Mary was to have a baby.

After nine months, she gave birth to a beautiful boy with gold-green eyes and he was named “Dean.”

Queen Mary and King John thought that nothing in the world would make them so happy until not many years later she gave birth to another son, this one named “Samuel,” but promptly shortened to “Sam.”

There was a great fullness inside the Queen, a great fullness that persisted until disaster struck one night.

Ever attentive, the Queen woke in the night to see her children and as she started, fondly, over the bed of her youngest, an arrow flew through the air and pierced her heart.

The King John felt an emptiness in him grow, an ache he had never known.

The King, in desperation, filled that ache with hate.

A month later, the King went with an army into the West, picking up the war that his wife had long since left.

The Princes, Dean and Sam, were sent with their Uncle Bobby to a castle with a high tower, far away and safe. They were raised there, safe in a valley, far from the whisper of war and their father.

They grew up alone, with only each other and their Uncle.

The ache and emptiness slowly filled the Prince Dean as well.

A routine was built inside the castle, a routine in which Dean woke up early in the morning before anyone else and climbed the highest tree in the garden and stared out over the wall, seeing all he could. He would stay there, watchful for many hours before climbing down and eating.

His brother would be awake by the time he came down from his tree, already absorbed in his book. Sam read and read and read. An insatiable appetite for knowing tried to fill whatever hole was inside of him.

Dean tried to fill that emptiness in him with watching, swordplay, and running.

He couldn’t get far- there simply was not much space enclosed by the castle, but there was enough that he could run from one far end to the other and wind himself and turn around and run back, panting, exhausted, aching.

Dean itched inside of the Castle and yearned to run outside of its walls and see the road the stretched in front of him. He wanted it so badly it hurt.

He would finish his running, would read a little, would eat dinner, and would climb his tree and watch the stars.

He loved the stars. They looked as free as he was trapped- silver and blue and bright in the night.

Some nights, he would climb out of the tree and sleep in his bed. Some nights he fell asleep in the crook of a branch.

Things were the same, always, until one day a falcon flew in through a window and gave them bleak news.

Their father, the King, seemed to have been captured during the War in the West.

Something inside of Dean seized terribly at the news- seized and broke and he got up from the table and he ran.

He ran past his Uncles shouts, ran past his brother’s concerned stare, ran out of the hall, past the gate, through the Castle, to his tree, up the trunk and leapt-

out of his castle and into the world.

He kept running, and running and running and running until the Castle was just a whisper of a place behind him and then he fell and he laughed.

Dean laughed and laughed and laughed, laughed until he cried and then he cried.

He could not remember the last time he had cried so much. It was like there was a damn built inside of him and in that moment, in the running it had broken and he was full of a kind of irrepressible need to _sob._

Dean cried until he was done, and then he realized what he had done.

_What had he done_.

He laughed and cried even more.

The sun eventually set, and he climbed a new tree and fell asleep.

He woke to voices-new voices.Voices he had never heard before.

“What’s this?” One of them asked. A high voice, high and bright and clean the way a razor is bright and clean as it’s held against a throat.

“I’m not sure,” another one said. A woman’s voice. “It looks like a little boy. A very rich little boy.”

“Oh dear,” the other said, “is he lost?”

Dean grasped, scrambled for something, the right thing to say here. He knew he was being threatened, but he had no idea what to do with this information.

Something else Dean didn’t know whispered beside him. _Trust me_ ,it whispered. _Don’t tell them who you are._

“Yes,” Dean replied, his voice wavering. “Lost. I…um, they…left.” He explained, messily. “I was a page. James the Page,” he explained.

“Oh, James the Page,” the man continued. There was more than wicked brightness in his voice, there was venom. There was a damp sound and a cry into the air. “How convenient, it would seem I need a Page.”

The voice whispered again- _It’s your only choice_.

Dean climbed down the tree reluctantly to meet what he could only assume were his new masters.

A man and a woman, both in armor- long dark hair on the woman and closely cropped grey on the man. The man had grey eyes that stared away, through and past Dean as if he were looking into another reality.

_Don’t be afraid_ ,the whisper came. _Don’t look at the other page_.

As soon as the whisper said it, Dean saw the corpse at the corner of his vision. Another boy, maybe his age as well.

Dean remembered his etiquette, the manners of a servant and bowed, low. “My lord,” he said.

“I am Sir Alistair,” the man said. “This is my servant, Ruby. We are in service of the King Morningstar in the West. You are now my page, James. That,” he continued, pointing to the corpse, “was my old page. Do try to do better than he, James.”

Dean nodded.

_Wordless_ ,the voice whispered _.Very smart. Do not speak more than is ever necessary. Do not fabricate unnecessarily.The more simple you seem, the better._

Dean, rather unexpectedly, found himself taken into the bosom of the enemy army.

They marched in utter silence away from the Castle, marched through the evening and into night when they came into the camp.

It was squalid- crooked tents gathered around sputtering fires and the stinging smell of fecal matter inflected the air around the outside.

Dean must have been making a face, because Sir Alistair turned to him and said in that voice like poison and honey and decay, “We shall be on the interior of the camp, so fortunately, you will not have to smell the latrines that often, James.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Dean answered. “Thank you, m’lord.”

The woman named Ruby turned on her heel, cupped Dean’s face in her hand. “Such a polite baby!” She cried aloud. “Why, you’ll barely have any fun at all, training this one!”

“Oh no, Ruby,” he replied. “We will have plenty of fun.”

Dean inexpertly helped Alistair from his armor, hanging it on a rack in his tent. He was struggling with the breastplate when Alistair spoke.

“You are my property, now,” he said quietly.

Dean did not look up from the breastplate, continued to work.

“Take off your shirt,” he commanded.

_I am so sorry_ ,the voice whispered, from nowhere.

Dean felt a deep shiver in himself as he stripped.

Alistair pulled a knife, silver and gleaming, from his pocket and handed it to Dean. “Polish this.”

Dean was moving to pick up his shirt, to clothe himself and leave, when Alistair spoke back up. “No,” he murmured, serenely. “In here. Your shirt, off.”

Dean nodded, obedient. “Yes, m’lord.”

_Don’t fear him_ ,the voice said. _He wants you to fear him_.

Dean pulled a velvet from Alistair’s trunk and diligently polished the knife.

_He will use the knife on you_ ,the voice continued. _Do not fear him_.

The knife shone when he gave it back to Alistair.

“You are my property,” his said once more. He laid the knife flat against Dean’s chest, pressing a little. “You are my property, and I will mark you,” he hissed, and now the point was driving into Dean’s chest and he slid the knife down, long and slow and greasy with pain. “I will mark, you, _Prince_.”

Fear bloomed in Dean’s chest.

Alistair finished his cutting as Dean screamed, held under the grasp of two huge men. He was clapped in irons and thrown into a tent nearby, still bleeding.

His head spun with the pain- he had never known anything like it- but he bit back sobbing, trying to control his  breathing, trying to calm down.

_You have done very well_ , the voice whispered.

“Who are you?” Dean whispered back.

_I am no one_ ,the voice answered. _No one important_.

A cool wind blew into the tent and brushed against Dean’s chest. It was soothing against the heat of the cuts.

_You’re hurt_ , the voice said. It nearly sounded panicked.

“Of course I am,” Dean snapped. “Alistair took that damn knife to me like you said he would.”

Something almost like a glow filled the tent- blue and bright and clean.

Dean’s face grew very serious as he watched the glow materialize and become nearly solid. The glow condensed into a man.

He laid a single finger to Dean’s lips.

_Shhh_ , he whispered.

Dean couldn’t help but notice so many things about the man- the way the words seemed to bypass his lips and go straight to his ear. His dark hair that stood up in all directions about his head. His eyes that were the same color and intensity of the glow. The fact that his wiry frame was naked. The dark wings that flowed out from his back.

Dean stayed quiet.

_I did not anticipate the extent of Alistair’s bloodlust_ , he said, and then paused, clearly frustrated. _I cannot erase them, but I can ease the pain and stop the bleeding. Maybe even prevent infection_. He studied Dean’s chest with great concentration. _I am so sorry I could not prevent this._

He laid a cool palm on Dean’s chest, and then looked up and into his eyes.

_Do you trust me?_

“Your name,” Dean whispered. “What is your name?”

He looked uncomfortable, terrified. _You must never tell them_ ,he answered. _They can never know._

Dean looked at him, serious and nearly grim.

_I am Castiel_ , he said.

Dean nodded, assenting. “I’m Dean.”

The glow flowed out of Castiel’s hand and into his chest, cold and bright and clear as he answered, _I know_.

Dean woke up with someone’s foot in his kidney. He coughed loudly in the cold air, shivering.

“Wake up,” came a shout, rough against his ears. Dean counted himself lucky it wasn’t Alistair.

Dean straightened himself as much he could in the heavy irons. “I’m awake,” he coughed out. “I’m awake.”

It was the woman, Ruby. She tossed a hunk of bread at him. “Thought you were pretty clever, didn’t you?” She taunted. “As if we didn’t know what that Castle is.” She laughed. “God, you royals are so slow.” She danced out of the tent.

Dean looked down at his chest, and fought a gasp. He had known it was bad from the feeling last night, but this was…dreadful. Huge scratches and gouges ran through his flesh like ribbons. They ached and itched, but the feeling was not as intense as it had been last night. He knew they would scar.

The sun was barely up, the morning still greying, and a cool wind blew into the tent.

“Castiel?” Dean whispered, barely knowing if what happened last night was a dream or not.

_Hello, Dean,_ was the small reply.

“You’re real,” Dean answered, almost reverential.

_Of Course I am,_ he answered, sounding puzzled. _Was that a doubt?_

“Well,” Dean whispered back. “Yeah.”

If sound could be indignant, Castiel was. _Oh,_ he murmured.

“Yesterday was pretty strange, okay?” Dean answered, trying quickly to assuage him. _Today is pretty strange, too,_ he thought. “I’m sorry. It’s been a hectic four days.”

There was another terrible pause. _He’s going to hurt you again,_ Castiel whispered. _He likes to break beautiful things._ The air shivered around Dean, and guilt inflected Castiel’s voice. _I wish I could save you._

“Hey,” Dean said. “This isn’t anyone’s fault but mine, alright? I’ll be fine.”

As the tent drew back and two men lugged him out, Dean began to have his doubts, however.

The armor rack was empty today, and Dean was held against it as rope tied him into place. The rope bonds bit into his skin- along his arms, at his waist, his ankles (tied together). He tried not to notice the brazier on the other side of the room and two boys stoking the flame.

Alistair walked in, holding his knife. “No,” he said, quietly to the boys. “Let me.”

The two boys practically ran from the tent.

“Good morning,” Alistair said. “My Prince.”

Dean said nothing.

Alistair leaned in, close to Dean. “Mm,” he hummed. “Tight lipped, aren’t we?” He held the knife by the point. “Well, if today will be anything like yesterday, we’ll loose those lips, won’t we?”

He walked over to the brazier, continued to stoke the fire until the sparks dashed into the air. Alistair nestled the knife into the coals like a mother putting a baby back to bed.

Dean heard Castiel’s voice again. _Please,_ was the whispered cry. _Please, no._

“Your father and I knew each other,” Alistair said. “We knew each other quite well. In fact we knew each other from the position you now hang from.”

Dean fought the urge to speak- to lay names on Alistair, names like _liar_ and _bastard_ and _asshole_ and  _dick._

“He was so strong, your father,” he pressed on. His voice slid through the air like the thin rasp of silk being cut. “I wonder if you’re strong like he was.”

He slid a calloused finger along one of Dean’s cuts, and the touch burned. He paused at a space where the cut was wide and plunged the finger through the scab and into Dean’s flesh.

Hot stars of pain flashed in Dean’s brain, and he bit his lip, held back the words that were forming in him.

_Stop,_ Castiel sang beside him. _No._

Alistair pulled his bloodied finger from Dean’s wound and smeared the blood under Dean’s eye, along his cheekbone. “So pretty with your decorations,” he murmured. “So very, very pretty.”

He turned from Dean, moving to the brazier. He pulled the knife from the coals, bright with heat and moved toward Dean.

The knife was so warm that Dean could feel it, hotter and hotter, as Alistair moved toward him. It was so warm, he could hardly bear it as Alistair held it before his lips, inching closer and closer. He pushed his head back as far as he could, but still Alistair came closer and closer.

“Give us a kiss,” Alistair whispered.

_Stop,_ Castiel chanted. _Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop._

The whispering became a shouting until it cut into the air, bright and clear. “STOP.”

The same blue glow from the night before materialized, gathering between Dean and Alistair, and as Alistair backed away, Castiel appeared, wings outstretched.

“You will not lay a hand on him,” he shouted.

Alistair continued to hold the knife, as if undaunted.

Castiel turned and pressed his palm deep into Dean’s shoulder, gripping tightly and soon there was an incredible sensation of pulling.

And Dean was off the rack, lying in a field, Castiel bent over him, his face a painting of shock until he dissolved back into a fluid glow.

Dean tried to get his breathing back, tried to inhale and exhale, but it seemed like all his body wanted to do was every motion all at once, out of relief.

That ghost of heat remained close to his lips, and the very real pain of Alistair’s thumb in him stayed. There was also a new ache in his shoulder, like a burn that had been healing for several days. He was gulping for air and frantic with relief.

“I’m alive,” he whispered. “I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive,” each repetition getting louder and louder until he was shouting on his back into the day, “I’m alive!”

The familiar whisper of cool wind came next to him, _I’m sorry._

“Sorry?” Dean cried. “Why would you be sorry? You saved me.”

_I was too late_ , Castiel replied, gentle. _He still hurt you_.

Dean pulled himself up on his elbows, feeling strange as he addressed the air. “He would have done more, that’s for damn sure, if you hadn’t gotten there.”

He looked around, looking for anything that would tell him where Castiel was. “Hey,” he said. “Where are you?”

_I’m near,_ was the reply. _It’s very difficult for me to be…visible._

“Why?” Dean asked.

Another uncomfortable pause. _I’m cursed,_ he answered.

“Oh,” Dean said. “Well, that sucks.”

_Yes,_ Castiel said in response. _Yes, it does._

“Is it hard to talk?” He continued. “I mean, if this hurts, I don’t want to press it.”

_No!_ He said, hurried. _No, it’s a relief. No one has heard me in quite some time. It’s good to not just shout into nothing._

Dean looked into the sky, the blue of it reminding him of the brief glimpses of Castiel’s eyes he caught- _God,_ they were intense.

“Who were you? Who are you?” Dean asked. “Don’t tell me ‘no-one’ this time; I won’t take that crap twice.”

The wind fluttered around, caught a small pile of leaves and stirred them, like a nervous habit. _I was a Knight,_ he said. _A Knight of a…distant kingdom with an absent king._

“The wings,” Dean asked, “Were they there before or after?”

_They’ve always been there,_ Castiel answered. _They’re a part of me. I’m not…I was never human._

“Oh,” Dean said. “What are you?”

_I’m an angel,_ was the reply, calm.

Dean was puzzled. “An angel? Angels aren’t real. What are you, really?”

_I told you_ , he shot back, his voice prickly with irritation. _I’m an angel. I was an angel. Now, I’m just a wind._

“But what was that in the tent? And when you took me out of there? You seemed to be a hell of a lot more than ‘just a wind.’” Dean said.

The sound of the leaves through the trees was like the sound of wings. _You’re very kind._

“Hey, I’m just being honest here. I don’t think I’d be alive if you hadn’t saved my sorry ass,” He pulled himself all the way upright, wincing.

_Please,_ Castiel begged. _Please don’t hurt yourself. Stay here. Tonight, I’ll manifest and heal what I can. Please._

Dean felt the wind circle him, like a pair of hands fussing over him. He flopped down and sighed. “Why are you so attached to me, anyway?”

_You are lonely,_ he answered. _You long to be free. So do I._

“How did you know I was lonely?” He asked, shutting his eyes against the bright sun. 

_I watched you in your tree. I could see you, inside your walls, wanting to be loose._ He stopped for a moment, the air totally still. _I’m sorry, I don’t mean to frighten you. I’m sorry._

“I’m  not afraid,” Dean answered, and in that moment, he wasn’t sure why he wasn’t afraid, but he knew it was true.

He fell asleep under the sun, and slept until it was deep evening and the stars were coming out. Dean found himself content to watch them, lying on his back. He must have watched them for twenty minutes before he murmured, “Castiel?”

_Yes?_ He replied, a few seconds later. _I am here, Dean_.

“You said you might be able to…appear tonight?” He asked.

_I can try now,_ he said.

Dean propped himself back up and watched at the air turned blue and that blueness thickened and eventually solidified, and there was Castiel.

He sat with his pale knees pulled into his chest and his wings wrapped over him. He looked so skinny, so fragile in that strange blue light that came from within him. His dark hair was like a halo about him- curled and tossed in every direction. He peered up over his knees at Dean, intensely.

There were a few minutes where it was clear he was catching his breath, before he finally said,Yes, I believe as long as the sun is down, it is not too difficult.

“What about what happened this morning?” Dean asked.

_I’m not sure,_ he said. _That was very strange._

He unfolded slightly, extending his hand toward Dean. _I did not mean to injure you,he sighed._

Dean looked at his shoulder, and there, pressed into the flesh was a perfect brand of Castiel’s hand. “Whoah,” Dean said in reply.

Castiel leaned in a little closer and touched where he had marked Dean. His touch was so soft, as soft as it had been when he was the wind. Again, that blue glow seemed to separate from him and flow into Dean.

It lit up his veins as it flowed into him and gathered in the slashes on his chest. They filled with it until they were bright with the glow, flashed so brightly that they stung into his vision, and then disappeared.

If Castiel looked a little awed, Dean could not imagine how he looked.

He looked up from where he had touched Dean and into his eyes, and he smiled, so slightly that if Dean wasn’t looking for it, he would have missed it.

It was a truly glorious smile, one that softened all of his features and brightened that strange blue aura that hung about him. His wings extended outward and flapped a few times, adjusting.

Jesus,they were beautiful- as dark at the night except in the place where they were shot through with the same blue of his eyes and his glow. Dean reached out to touch them, to simply brush his fingers against the feathers.

Castiel fell backward with surprise.

“Whoah,” Dean cried. “You okay?”

he replied. _Yes, fine. You startled me._ He pulled himself back up. _You should probably start heading East._

“That can wait until morning,” he answered. “That’s when you poof away again, right?”

He nodded.

“Then we’re not going anywhere,” he continued and flopped back down onto his back and stared, up at the sky.

There was the loose rustling sound of Castiel inching away when Dean said, “No, stop.” He leaned up, to look at him. “Stay. Watch the stars with me.”

Castiel looked at him with great fondness, and he lay back down.

With only the whisper of the wind for music, they laid and watched the stars.

Dean wasn’t surprised when he woke up, and both the slashes on his chest and Castiel were gone. His handprint stayed, however.

He stretched up, his joints popping in a satisfactory way. He was thankful that Alistair had left him his shoes. Foolish, that.

_Hello, Dean_ , came the familiar whisper.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean yawned. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find water, would you?”

_Yes,_ he answered. _There’s a stream in the wood, past the treeline. Quite convenient actually- it heads east._

It was strange, traveling this way, but Dean found traveling strange anyway. He had never been so far out in the open, been without the walls. He tried to move quietly.

Castiel made commentary over his shoulder- little things about the plants, the birds, the bees. At one point, he murmured, _Stop._

Dean obeyed, and looked about himself, and to his surprise, there were deer- a doe and her fawn.

They stood there, in the wood, very very quiet.

With great trepidation they approached him, close enough to touch.

_It’s okay,_ Castiel whispered. _She trusts you._

Dean reached out, with trembling hands, and the fawn nuzzled him with a damp nose.

He did not know much about the woods, about deer and their ways, but he knew deep in his heart that this was highly unusual. He smiled, and the fawn licked his hand. The doe leaned forward and licked from his cheek the blood he had forgotten was there.

They held their accord there, silent in the temple of the woods until the doe suddenly looked up and by some invisible signal dashed off with her fawn.

_Follow them_ , Castiel whispered, his voice the sibilant wind. _They know where the stream is._

Dean hardly recognized his reflection in the stream.

His green eyes took in the changed details of himself. He looked far older than he did a few days ago. His smattering of freckles had become a wide swath after so much time so exposed to the sun. They extend past his cheekbones and  onto his ears, dotting  his chest in parts as well. The blonde in his hair had become more prevalent.

His thirst soon became too much, and he broke his study by plunging his face into the cool water, gulping eagerly.

_If you follow the stream,_ it will take you East,Castiel explained.I cannot cross it, however.

“Oh,” Dean replied, frowning. “Do I need to cross it?”

There was the same uncomfortable pause. No, he said. _It does eventually bisect your kingdom, however._

“Well, then,” Dean said. “I won’t cross it yet.”

The silence that followed was warm and contented, like the sunlight that painted everything in the gold and green shades of Dean’s eyes. They followed the edge of the stream at an easy, rambling pace.

_I remember,_ Castiel said as the sun reached it’s zenith, _when this forest was one tree._

Dean was beginning to get used to the incorporeal voice that always lingered  breathlessly just behind him, but at that comment, he could not help but reel around, hoping to see him. “How long have you been here?” Dean demanded, shocked.

_Too long,_ Castiel chuckled.

Dean turned back around, continued walking. “Why hasn’t anyone broken your curse?”

_No one has been able to,_ he replied. _The conditions are very specific._

Dean watched the ground under his feet, dark mud reaching up between shoots of emerald grass. “What are the conditions?” He asked.

If Castiel’s voice had always hung with longing, with a kind of hollowness, it never sounded so small and so fragile as it did in that moment, when he breathed nearly silently, _True love’s kiss._

“Oh,” Dean said, taken aback.

_I would rather not talk about it_ , Castiel said.

The conversation closed, the silence returned. There was nothing uncomfortable about it, though. There was always a pleasant completion to being near Castiel- like his words were not necesscary.

Dean felt something near his fingertips, a rush of the wind. They walked together along the stream, and Dean got the feeling, that Castiel was trying to hold his hand. He was okay with that.

Eventually, the forest gave way into flat farmland and the stream widened into something more closely resembling a river and they came upon an inn which perched upon the river in an almost anxious way, as if it could take flight at any moment.

“Can you go inside?” Dean asked.

_No_ , Castiel answered. _Not like this. I can after dark, but I doubt they would want anyone naked in their establishment._

“I’ll figure it out,” Dean replied. “Stay here.”

_Dean-_

“I’ll be back,” he assured the invisible voice that always lingered behind him.

A wooden sign hung on the outside of the inn- _The Roadhouse_ it read in red letters. A sigil in white paint decorating the outside of the door, and as Dean pushed open the door slowly, he did not anticipate the crossbow that was pointed directly between his eyes.

“What’s your business here, boy?” Asked the woman holding it.

Dean knew the protocol here in a vague place in the back of his head, and he slowly lifted his hands up, palms open and facing her.

The woman had reddish-brown hair and a scowl like a bulldog. She wore trousers- unusual- and a deep green coat. “One more time, boy,” she barked. “What are you doing here?”

Dean had never felt so alone in his life as he half-expected Castiel’s warm, guiding whisper against his ear.

“I’m running,” he answered, which was close enough to the truth. “I escaped the service of a knight of the Western kingdom. I need asylum.”

The woman continued to stare, critical, at Dean as she slowly lowered her crossbow. “You’re not lyin’, are you?”

Dean shook his head gravely.

She laid her weapon on the table and called to the back, “Jo! A beer for the boy.”

Dean felt a warmth inside of himself at the mention of beer. He quite liked beer. It was one of his indulgences at the castle.

The place was conspicuously empty, only three men curled about a table in a drunken stupor an indicator that the place did any business whatsoever.   
“Don’t mind them,” the woman said in response to Dean’s look. “They drink their feelings.”  
“I do not ‘drink my feelings,’” of of them petulantly cried, not moving from his facedown position.   
“Shut up, Gabriel,” chimed another woman as she burst through a door and thrust a pint into Dean’s hand. “Drink,” she ordered, pointedly. Although she was  younger than Dean (younger than his brother, too), she carried herself with absolute authority.   
Dean didn’t have to be told twice, and he settled into a chair at a nearby table.   
He was just getting comfortable when one of the drunks sat suddenly up and studied Dean, quizzical.   
“Where’s your shirt?” He asked, voice slow from both drink and his accent.   
“Same place you left your brains, Ash,” the man-who-did-not-drink-his-feelings shot back.  
“Gabriel,” the third commented, turning his head so that he could see Dean through his dark, curly hair, “Gabriel, we haven’t been anywhere _near_ Sir Alistair of the Western Kingdom’s tent.”  
Dean paled at the mention.   
Another man sat up, the one who didn’t drink his feelings, and looked at him, blinking rapidly. “Wait, wait, wait,” he slurred. “ _You’re_ the Prince?”

Dean swallowed hard against the acusation, struggling for the right words.   
“Yep!” The only one who was still lying on the table cried. “Yeah, that’s him!”

The one who had had his doubts- longish blonde hair, a smirk painted permanently across his face- slid off of his chair and swaggered over to Dean’s table.

“Have I,” he announced, “Got news for you, Hombre!”

“Wait,” Dean practically shouted, “What makes you think I’m a Prince?” He felt his heart race with panic, and he felt more than shirtless in this tavern. He felt naked.

Finally, all three heads were in the air, and the one who had recognized him pointed to his head. “‘M Chuck,” he provided by way of introduction. “I see things,” he continued. “True things. Visions.”

The swaggerer waved a hand dismissively at Chuck. “He’s a prophet. Long story. Short story, we need you to slay a dragon.” He extended a hand, which Dean reluctantly took. “Gabriel,” he introduced, “Messenger. That’s Chuck the Prophet and the useless one with a bad haircut is Ash.”

“I’m not useless!” The man who was named Ash cried. “I went to MIT!”

Gabriel turned around and looked at Ash like lobsters were crawling out of his ears. “Dude,” he retorted. “Wrong universe!” He turned back to Dean. “He’s got it written down somewhere, anyway, it’s your role. There’s a dragon. He wants to burn down the house. You,” and at this he gestured at Dean, “are the guy. The weapon. Whatever. It’s your destiny.”

Dean could feel his chest tightening, could feel panic loosely settle- _Slay a Dragon? Destiny?_ He wasn’t even really sure where he was walking, knowing vaguely he was headed for a shadowy memory of a place he sometimes reluctantly called his kingdom and now he had a _Destiny?_ Now there was a _plan?_

“Wait,” Dean breathed, “Why am I the one who has to-“

“Let’s get to grand destinies later,” the older woman, clearly the mother, interrupted. “The boy clearly needs a shirt.”

He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was that same thing at the Castle, that same urge that built up and he leapt to his feet and ran to the door, dashed out of it as he tumbled over chairs and through the door.  He gasped for air as he ran as  best he could and when he got outside, so many things happened it made his head spin.

The sun was going down, and the forest that lay before the roadhouse, the forest he had crossed, cut into the red and orange and purple sunset like vicious black teeth.

The firelight of torches cut through the trees like eyes.

Castiel’s hush in his ear- _I couldn’t warn you, I couldn’t, I was too late, Dean you have to run._

_He’s found you._

Under the hush Dean could hear the enclosing murmur of footprints.

He ran back towards The Roadhouse and ran inside, to the collective shock of the occupants, shouted, gasping, “They’re coming. The Western Army is coming.”

All of them were suddenly seized with an impossible singularity and fluidity of motion. They dashed out of the door and ran swiftly to the stable in the back where by some miracle there were horses for the the five and one more for Dean.

Dean observed from the single rational spot of his mind that his horse was exceptionally beautiful. Huge, long, and jet black, the animal had tack and saddle in shining silver and deep, dark black.

The animal moved, too, and the party fled from the encroaching army swiftly into the East.

Dean made a tally of names- Ellen, Jo, Chuck, Gabriel, and Ash.

And Castiel.

They had been riding, hard, for about an hour when Dean suddenly felt the terrible emptiness of his absence and had to bite his tongue to keep from shouting his name.

_I’m here,_ he whispered almost as soon as Dean realized. _I’m here._

Dean had never felt so relieved to hear- no-to _feel_ someone’s voice.

The stopped two hours later in the dark, horses exhausted, saddle sore.

Ellen- the mother- forbid a fire. No one questioned her judgement.

As they sat in the dark, pretending to be unafraid, Dean remembered something deep inside of him.

A catch of sunlight. A smell like earth and apples and warmth. The glow of golden hair. A voice, soothing him with a song he had long forgotten.

_I am sorry,_ Castiel whispered, the first time he had spoken in hours, _That I do not know the words to her song._

“Are you in my head?” Dean muttered, hoping no one else heard him.

_Your memories of her spill out of you_ , he rushed. _They were so loud. I didn’t mean to hear._

“Yeah,” Gabriel added as he slid in close next to Dean. “Yeah, you’re kind of shouting there, bucko.”

_Brother?_ Castiel gasped.

“In the flesh!” Was the responding smirk. He focused on Dean. “Where’d you find my little bro?”

“Brother?” Dean asked, quizzical. “You’re an angel?”

Gabriel looked slightly taken aback. “Cassie’s been spilling the family secrets? I’m hurt.”

“Where have you been?” Gabriel asked of his brother, seeming to address the air about Dean’s shoulder.

_Here,_ was the sorrowed reply. _I’ve been here. It cut me from the song._

Dean would have sworn that the smirk cracked, and bleeding from the wound into the pale moonlight was the brightest rage. It came and passed in less than a second, the falling and replacing of a mask. It was one of the most singularly terrifying things Dean had ever seen.

“Little brother should learn to take care of himself,” Gabriel joked hollowly, transparently.

There was a huge stab of panic in Dean at the mention of little brothers, and before his brain could process the worry, he was babbling. “Sam,” he gasped. “Sam, is Sam okay? Can you check on him? Is he alive? Where is he?” It rang like a tattoo in his mind- _Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam._

“He’s fine,” Chuck interrupted. “He got out with Bobby, they’re headed to the Capital. He’s safe.” He yanked something out of his bag and threw it at Dean. “You need one.”

It was a shirt. It was a little too big for him, in a blue and white plaid. He shrugged into it, glad for the cover.

Gabriel rolled his eyes at the shirt. “You just couldn’t resist, could you?”

Chuck shrugged. “The song remains the same,” he obliquely retorted.

Ash snorted from his lying position on the ground.

“The dragon wants him, though,” Chuck said faintly, almost shyly. “He sees… something in your brother. Terrible potential. It’s hard to explain. As long as heis,Sam is in danger.”

“Well, all of everything is in danger as long as Lucifer is kicking,” Gabriel added pithyily.

_No,_ Castiel breathed. _No, you can’t mean him._

It was strange, Dean was having the same thoughts about Sam.

“I’m afraid we do,” his brother said, gravely.

There was nothing slow, nothing smooth to the light in the air. There was a flash and then from clean air, Castiel was sitting between his brother and Dean, intruding into his personal space. He looked so dreadfully pale, eyes wide with pain.

_It will unmake him,_ he whispered.

So little sound had never sounded so powerful, so possessive.

_It will erase him, Brother. Surely someone else, surely-_

“Destiny,” Chuck murmured faintly. “Prophecy.”

_Please,_ he cried. “Please, me instead.”

Castiel’s handprint buzzed on Dean’s shoulder as his voice took dimension and became something more substantial than the air.  It buzzed and tugged. It pulled him in the most dizzying way and when the world stopped spinning he was away from the group and it was only him and Castiel.

“I have to,” Dean said. “I have to do this.”

_No,_ Castiel begged.

He looked so vulnerable in the light of the moon and the stars, naked and pale, blue eyes huge. His wings folded, slumped almost.

Dean felt his expression soften involuntarily. “He’s my brother,” he tried to explain.

A smile that lit up a room. A body stretched across books- a body stretching and stretching until it scraped ceilings. Gentle eyes. Bad at lying. Compassion.

_Please. You can’t know what this will do to you._

“You’re right,” Dean replied. “But I know what Sam,” his voice caught on his words, cracking around those three, awful syllables, “what Sam being _hurt_ would do to me.”

Castiel’s mouth opened, hung between open and closed for a few, awful moments. _Then take me with you,_ he finally said.

Dean shook his head. “I can’t do that to you,” he replied. “I can’t risk you getting hurt.” Even he was surprised by that, the protective urge that came out of nowhere.

Castiel started shaking his head, slowly, and then faster and faster. _No,_ he cried. _No, no, no, please, don’t deny me that. Don’t deny me your salvation._

Dean reached out to touch him, but Castiel flinched away, flinched and dissolved, and then it was just Dean standing there.

There was no wind to stir the air and no voice above his shoulder. Only him, and when he turned around, the rest of them not far off.

Gabriel immediately clapped his hand over Dean’s back when he got back to the makeshift camp and said, loud and bright and cheerful, “So how did you meet my little brother?”

“He saved me,” Dean murmured.

Gabriel nodded. “Yeah,” he replied. “That sounds like him.”

When the sun rose the next morning, they changed directions and started heading away from the stream.

It was still quiet above Dean’s shoulder.

“Where are we going?” He asked.

The three me pointed resolutely. “That way,” the answered in unison.

“Idiots,” Ellen muttered under her breath. “They’re taking you to the mountain, boy.” She answered. “To the lair.”

“‘They’re?’” Chuck repeated, a question on his voice.

“Yes,” Ellen shot back. “You.” She turned to Dean, apology in her voice. “I’m sorry, but this stopped being my war a long time ago. I gave my dues to the crown. We’re splitting off North when we leave the forest.”

They were gone two days later. By nightfall of the third, the mountain had reared into sickeningly close view, hanging over them.

“Lucy lives there,” Gabriel explained. “Biggest house on the block, you can’t miss it!”

Dean had trouble sleeping, so alone and so quiet despite the plethora of company.

The air was so still.

They were gone when he woke up, only a shining silver sword left where Gabriel had slept, a note reading, _Go for the belly! He’s ticklish there!_ the only words.

Dean looked up at the mountain, spotting the cave not too far up.

It was so much closer than he could have imagined.

He hefted the sword over his shoulder, and alone ( _why was he doing this alone?_ ), he walked up the mountain to face The Dragon.

The cave was a hungry mouth set deep into the rock of the mountain. It was dark and deep and hot. The smell that emerged from it was dark and sulfurous.

Dean stood before it, holding the sword that was too big for his hands in a shirt that wasn’t his and he felt impossibly small. Like a Dragon was something too huge for him to defeat, that the world was ending and he could not possibly prevent it.

Dean tightened his grip on the sword until the handle bit into him and the pain of it was a reminder of something Sam had given him when they were small.

An amulet of some sort- he still wasn’t sure where Sam had gotten it. It was a little gold head with horns protruding from it- the whole thing not much bigger than his fingernail.

It tended to dig into his skin when he slept, but he wore it anyways, all the time.

He’d fallen out of a tree one day, and it had disappeared- slipped off his neck to be lost in high grass. He looked for it for three days.

Dean inhaled the pungent breath of the cave and he wished fervently that he had that damn thing with him now.

Dean stepped into the lair, sore afraid.

The smell only became worse the deeper he went into the cave. It was deep and bitter and sour, stinging at his eyes and nose. When his eyes adjusted to the greasy darkness, the cave proved to be more awful than he had imagined.

Bones lay in brazen piles, scattered intermittent with gold and jewels and the strange, sickly plants that had learned to grow without light. It was all smeared with filth- the ambers of grease intermingled with the grey of ash, the black of shit, the yellow of sulfur.

He covered his mouth with his shirt and fought back gags as he headed down the tunnel.

He had rounded a corner when a red, burning light began to filter through his vision, accompanied by a hot whisper.

_Ah,_ it sibilantly hissed. _They’ve sent me the righteous man, now._

Dean’s fingers turned white as they gripped tight against the handle of the sword.

Less of a man and more of a boy, though. Strange, the offerings of this universe.The voice was smug and dark. It’s bite was stinging and awful, lighting up his nerves as it spoke to him.

_You hardly seem capable of your weapon, Little Prince,_ the voice hummed. _Lay it down and leave me here. Leave me in peace._

Dean fought the urge to turn, to follow the voice’s advice and go and leave this lair, but he held on as tight as he could to the biting sword.

_How does the rhyme go?_ The voice mused. _Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home. Your house is on fire, and your children will burn._

It was the hottest Dean had ever felt, worse than the fever he’d had as a child, worse than the rack. Memories  he’d never had-

_Sam screaming, screaming, screaming open mouthed in agony as faceless soldiers tore down the castle brick by brick by brick by the burning forest and the wind that evaporated under the hungry fingers hungry fingers of fire_

and he was twitching on the floor, screaming hoarsely for it to stop, for Sam to be alive, for the Castle to stand, for the wind to always blow.

He was still holding the sword.

_Those things, they don’t have to come to pass,_ the voice murmured. _Leave, leave and I will call them back and they will never burn._

Dean hefted the sword and he cut through the air.

Cut wildly blindly hopeless cut and cut and cut stumbling scrambling tearing through the dark and despair and heat cut and cut and cut until he felt bright heat and then he cut and cut and cut against impossible, loud, growling,  high, dark, and terrible screams cut and cut and cut into the inferno, cut and cut and cut.

It was like emerging from deep water- one moment everything was occluded and dark and the very next it was clean and blue and very, very clear.

There was also quite a lot of gasping.

Dean was breathing like his body had forgotten how, hungry for air in an impossible way and once he had caught his breath he got a moment to really look around himself.

He was lying in the woods, far from the mountain- in fact, it was nowhere in sight. It was night now, only that tremulous thread of moonlight cutting the dark. He was on a stone tablet, raised from the ground. As he carefully laid a wobbling foot on the ground, he noticed the odd flowers that had sprouted around him.

It was the damnedest thing- a vine with dark green leaves and bright blue flowers had formed a canopy above him, and it curled around the base of where he had been resting. The little star-shaped flowers were bright even in the dark. He picked one and twisted it between his fingertips. The smell of it was sweet and clean.

He placed it gently behind his ear- he was not sure why.

The wind blew, and Dean whispered, under his breath, “Castiel.”

_Yes_ , he answered.

Dean dared not let his heart soar.

He bit his lip, fighting for the right words, for the thing to say. “Where were you?” He asked.

_I ran,_ he answered. _I could not watch you destroy yourself, and I ran. I am a coward._

“How did I get here?” Dean asked, hoarsely.

The wind turned, became so soft like a sound of wings.

_You called,_ he answered. _You called and I could not turn away._

Dean absentmindedly grabbed a length of the vine and with nervous fingers began to braid lengths of it. “That doesn’t sound like cowardice to me,” he muttered.

The light became that impossible blue glow that grew and solidified, and then Castiel was there, standing before him. He was just as pale, just as fragile, just as naked, just as beautiful as he had been the first time Dean had seen him, but there was a change, a terrible change.

His wings were in shreds. Where they had once been a perfect, dark collection of inky black feathers arrayed in proud, high shape there were now loose and dirty and ungroomed and bleeding.

Dean got up, all the way and approached him, hand extended outward to touch.

“What,” he asked, voice trembling with utter terror, “What happened to you? Who did this to you?” His inquisitive fingers met the injured wings and they shivered defensively. Castiel looked ashamed.

_They were injured in the lair,_ he replied. _They will heal. They will not likely scar._ Castiel looked up at Dean, clenching and unclenching his hands.

_I have never,_ he started, in the voice that was not his voice, the voice he borrowed from the air, _I will never love…anyone the way I love you so completely. You are my breath and my voice and my cry in the night._

A look stole over his face, as if he had not expected those to be the words to come out. _I failed you. I turned away when you needed me most._

He closed his eyes and looked pained. I _can only ask you my release. Release me, and I shall leave your kingdom and never return._

Dean’s busy fingers had woven the vine into a circle. He looked down at it, murmuring, “No.”

Castiel looked so horrified, so utterly lost.

“No,” Dean repeated. He looked up from his hands, looked up at Castiel.  “No, don’t leave. Don’t ever leave me.” His voice cracked in his mouth, not realizing he was crying. “Don’t leave me again.”

He leaned forward, and with trembling, inexperienced fingers placed the crown of flowers upon Castiel’s head. His fingers fluttered lower and brushed against his jawlines. Dean gently brought Castiel’s face towards his. “Please don’t leave me,” he cried.

His lips brushed Castiel’s, chapped and pink.

There was an incredible flash of light, blinding and bright and clean and perfect. It slid into all corners of his vision, so bright it sang.

Dean could hear with unfamiliar solidity, “No. I’ll never leave you.”

  
  


  
  



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